Anything
by DormantAllure
Summary: Sequel to "Intransigent" and "In My Place". News of the Watson-Holmes liaison has hit the morning papers. It's now up to Harry Watson to help John adjust to his new life.
1. Chapter 1

This is a sequel to "Intransigent" and "In My Place". I recommend you read them first.

NOTES: We didn't see much of Sherlock during "In My Place". This third (and last) instalment will certainly remedy that. Plus we get to meet the elusive Harry. I couldn't call this the Sisterverse unless I gave the mic to Sister Watson at some point, could I?

Lykke Li's album "I Never Learn" served as a soundtrack for this piece.

I am honoured and grateful for all kudos, comments, reviews and other kinds of encouragement received. I'm glad you have enjoyed the ride so far.

This is dedicated to the wonderful man who has decided to share his life with me and who will probably facepalm so very hard when he hears that I'm writing Johnlock again.

—-

Anything

The kitchen table at 221b Baker Street's upstairs apartment was often full of clutter. Unwashed teacups, experiments gone awry, mechanical bits and pieces of whatever contraption Sherlock had decided to dismantle in a bout of boredom. This morning, however, it was filled with the labours of love of the British media.

"You've bought all of them, then?" Sherlock enquired calmly, leafing through the Morning Star. "And yesterday's tabloids as well?"

John slumped down onto one of the kitchen chairs. "Pretty much, yeah."

"And what, if I may ask, is the point of this exercise in masochism?"

"I just, I… Really don't know. I thought we need to know what they're saying. Or if they actually are interested. Celebrities gone and go, you know. Interest wanes."

"You could have deduced the general level of interest by the number of gossip column reporters Mrs Hudson has had to fend off with her broomstick during the last 24 hours."

John gave Sherlock a dirty look. "Are you suggesting that anyone who finds themselves suddenly famous would NOT want to see what's actually being written about them?"

"I don't see the point. At least 65 percent of it will be lies and conjecture."

Sherlock picked up another specimen from John's collection of papers. "Any particular pet peeves, then?"

John passed him a clipping. He had no idea why he was thinking about sparing any of this garbage.

Maybe he kind of liked that one picture of them together. The one where he was talking to Anderson and Sherlock was intensively staring at him when John didn't notice. That was from a year ago. Sad, really. They could have realised certain things a bit earlier, really.

Sherlock straightened the paper. "'Consort' John Watson. I really don't see why you might find that so offensive." His expression was deadpan. That, or he actually didn't understand. John couldn't tell which.

John snorted. "It makes you sound like the bloody regent and me like some sort of an appendage you deign to drag around."

"I would say it's more of a play on the classical archetype of a hero and his trusty companion."

An image suddenly flashed through John's mind of Sherlock dressed as a Greek warrior. Sometimes he felt his mental acuities had flown out of a window the minute he'd allow himself to succumb to the charms of his lunatic flatmate.

"I need more coffee." John left his chair to make some.

Sherlock tucked his shirt into his trouser waist. "I received an email this morning from an H. Watson."

John abandoned his coffeepot to stare at Sherlock. "Harry? Why?"

A smirk played on Sherlock's lips. "You had disabled the comments function on your blog."

"Wonder why?"

No reply.

John cut his finger opening a new packet of coffee. Sherlock was standing next to their cardboard box of plasters and other assorted medical supplies but made no move to pass it to John who had stuck his bleeding forefinger in his mouth. "What did she want?" he mumbled.

"She wishes to enquire if we were available for dinner?" Sherlock looked more expectant that John ever would have predicted.

"Why would you want to go to dinner with Harry? You were quite adamant that you had no interest in meeting my other relatives."

"Relatives we cannot choose. Harriet you obviously share some kind of warm relationship beyond being siblings so I guess I was intrigued."

John wrapped a wad of tissues around his finger. Sherlock stepped closer, took hold of his hand, pulled off the makeshift bandages and inspected the injured limb. "You'll need stitches."

John reclaimed his hand. "I don't."

"Yes you do. I could do it. You're always telling me I should have a working knowledge of first aid."

"No I really don't need stitches you creep. You can go practice with Molly at the morgue if you like."

Long, slender fingers snaked around his waist possessively from behind. "I don't want to practice with Molly."

John leaned the back on Sherlock's shoulder. "I know I'm your favourite subject to torture."

Minutes passed in silence. The warmth radiating from Sherlock almost made John forget about the papers. Almost.

Four hours later they were standing on the curb outside. Sherlock was preoccupied with his phone, and John was growing increasingly irate at passing taxis who weren't noticing his hailing. "We could actually take the tube, you know."

Sherlock did not bother to look up from his screen. "No stops nearby. Kensington is not exactly well covered by the tube network. Most occupants drive or more accurately, are driven."

"It still doesn't quite compute why Harry would be living there. She's usually more of a Soho commune type girl."

"She's your sister, not mine. You'd be much more qualified to answer that."

Finally, a co-operating cab. They settled into the backseat and Sherlock gave the address in southern Kensington.

"Isn't Kensington where Mycroft lives?" John inquired absent-mindedly, watching London float by.

"Mayfair."

"I still don't get why she wouldn't just email or text me instead of you."

"Curiosity, John. It's quite obvious. Since you have not been forthcoming in introducing us, she decided to bypass you to see how I would react to such an invitation."

John leaned his palms onto his knees. This ought to be much easier than meeting anyone's parents. Still, Harry was all that was left of his immediate family. Even though they did not see one another often, blood was thicker than water and so forth.

Sherlock finally pocketed his phone. "She seemed quite vivacious. Less guarded than you."

"You mean she's a nosy blabbermouth."

Sherlock leaned back on the seat, fiddling with the edge of John's coat sleeve. Maybe it had not been such a good idea to brew Sherlock the pot of coffee. An irritable, fidgety Sherlock was less likely to behave. John covered Sherlock's fingers with his hand.

"You still like her." A statement, not a question. "You have a high tolerance for demanding individuals."

"I do, don't I. Of course I like her. Not much she hasn't done to test that but I do. I hated the way in which she has always deliberately thrown her bad choices in everybody else's faces and expect them to pick up the slack. Still, at least she's honest and isn't afraid to ask for help."

"I'm honest."

"You're a prat. Still love you, though. Anyway, what's with the questions? I thought you could deduce all you needed when you actually met her."

"True. But that would not necessarily offer me any tools in discerning how to approach her in an agreeable way."

"You mean you're actually going to try and be nice?"

"Is that surprising?" Sherlock seemed perplexed.

"Sort of. What do you care if she likes you or not? You never care otherwise."

"She is evidently important to you."

John was taken aback, slightly embarrassed that he still could underestimate Sherlock after all that had happened. Sometimes the way in which everyone else regarded him as a sociopath automaton was contagious to even John. "Sorry, Sherlock", was the only suitable reply that came to mind.

"Mm." Sherlock was staring absent-mindedly out the window, not really listening anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

Their destination was one of Kensington's ubiquitous white stone townhouses. It appreared well kept, with colourful flowerpots decorating the front entrance. They lingered by the doorway, John straightening his coat and Sherlock's hand flying up to pull his collars upwards. John stopped him. "Just don't."

Sherlock glared at him. Then the door opened, and in less than a split second he flashed what he thought of as his best friendly smile. The one that John had dubbed his axe murderer face.

Such was the first glimpse Harriet Watson got of his brother and his now-more-than-flatmate: John looking slightly uncomfortable and a tall, dark fellow standing next to him, grinning like a madman. This should be interesting.

"Hey Harry," said John, and soon he was engulfed in a big sisterly hug. "Mind the shoulder, you."

Harry beamed. "Sorry. God, it's good to see you. Don't be a stranger'n all that, you know? Not even a text? I have to compulsively check your blog to find out what's going on with my bro? Or read the papers."

John grimaced. Harry turned her attention to Sherlock, who was clearly trying to figure out what to do with his already fatigued facial muscles. "So you're you then." Harry seemed to be appraising him from top to toes. "Bloody hell, John. I mean I've seen the newspaper shots but Jesus H Christ."

Sherlock looked confused. "I'm not sure what warrants all these expletives."

John nudged him. "It's a compliment. I think."

"Damn right it is. In you go, shoo." She moved aside from the doorway to let them into the hall.

John whistled. "Any time you'd like to enlighten us how you ended up living in a bloody mansion would be nice."

Sherlock carefully removed his coat and scarf, lost in thought. John could only guess at the onslaught of information he was getting upon entering such a grand premise.

John had been to Mycroft's house once, and this place did not lag much behind it in grandeur. Flower arrangements, antique furniture, marble floors.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Inherited."

Harry nodded, passing John a coat hanger. "Charlotte's family are judges and barristers going back a couple of centuries."

"Bursnell or Sallow?"

"Sallow." Harry was staring. "I knew you were good, like brilliant, judging by what John says on the blog, but- - "

John smiled. Textbook first reaction to the proximity of Sherlock's cleverness.

"Several cases have demanded perfunctory knowledge of British genealogy."

"I wouldn't exactly call that perfunctory. Dinner's almost done. I used Mom's recipe for Shepherd's pie."

After a short tour of the house and some small talk later they were settled at the dinner table. John had noticed the way in which Sherlock had seemed to appraise Harry, take in all possible details. He secretly hoped he'd resist the temptation to indulge in his usual antics. Harry was not too keen on other people pointing out his faults. John had figured that a certain amount of self-denial was necessary for anyone to fully indulge in the addictions that had characterised his sister's life. She seemed alright, now. Quite happy. Sober. Toned down. Maybe this Charlotte person was being a stronger good influence that Clara had managed. John had really liked Clara.

Harry waved her fork at Sherlock, who was still being surprisingly quiet. "Go on, then. I know you want to."

Sherlock raised his brows. "Excuse me?"

"Read me, deduce me, whatever it is you two call it. I've been waiting for this for two years now. I'm sure John has shared most sordid details of my life with you already so I don't think there's much you could say to upset me."

John's laugh was somewhat hollow. "You really have no idea, Harry."

"There's usually a context in which to ground my thinking. 'Deduce me' is quite a vague starting point."

"I could ask questions. Start with something easy. Like a game."

Sherlock ran his fingers through his head. John thought he seemed uncharacteristically reluctant. John was quite touched that Sherlock seemed to be making a genuine effort to at least try to avoid insulting Harry. And insults were often an inevitable byproduct of Sherlock's genius.

"Alright." Sherlock placed his napkin on the table, with an almost predatory glint appearing in his eyes.

John sighed. "Now's your chance to back off, Harry."

"No way in hell." Harry looked as enthusiastic as Sherlock.

John gave up. "I'm not pulling you two off one another's throats later on, that's for sure." He decided to focus on his dinner.

Harry straightened her spine. "Favourite colour."

Sherlock looked insulted. "Really. You said easy, not preschool level."

Harry giggled. "Just humour me."

Humouring people was not Sherlock's defining characteristics, but even the slightest chance to prove his intellect would not be wasted. John picked apart his bread roll. Usually he enjoyed Sherlock's theatrics but knowing Harry this could easily spread to areas that John would not wish to enlighten his sister about.

"Black, but since a post-adolescent gothic style would clash with this house and your significant other's rather bourgeois lifestyle you've toned down."

Harry nodded. "And Charlotte's?"

"A barrister would knowingly select muted, neutral and business-like tones for work. To compensate for this she might favour a more colourful palette on her days off. Judging by the flowers, red and orange. Also, I would not peg you as someone who favours timid women in pastel shades."

"Well, no. Judging by what you're wearing you're no stranger to carefully selecting what you wear either. Maybe some of that dress sense could rub off on our John here."

John raised his arms in protest. "There's nothing wrong with practical!"

"Sure, grandad, whatever."

John tried hard to look indignant but couldn't help but smile since it was difficult for him to take Harry's jibes seriously.

Harry's attention continued to be on Sherlock. "I think the hat was a bit much, though."

"I concur. Excellent test material for the flammability of wool."

"So you don't wear it to bed then, eh?" Harry asked in mock innocence. If John didn't know better he would have thought there was a quick flash of crimson on Sherlock's cheeks. Just a quick flash.

Harry stood up and gathered their plates. She hesitated before grabbing Sherlock's who had hardly touched his food. She remember John's blog remarks about his almost non-existent appetite so she confiscated his plate anyway without asking first. He did not protest.

"Lemon pie okay with you?" she enquired.

"As long as there's tea," Sherlock replied. "Any more?"

"Loads. I've not even started with you, mister. How did I meet Charlotte?"

Sherlock joined his fingers together, leaning onto the now empty dining table. "Easy again. Rehab."

John was surprised. Or maybe not. A successfully recovering former addict was probably good support for Harry.

Harry could not see the logical leaps required for the deduction. "How'd you get that?" she asked from the kitchen.

"It seems unlikely that your would move in the same social circles. Judging by your Internet manners or lack thereof evident in your comments to John's blog, you lack the patience for online dating. The law is a high-stress environment, particularly for a young woman in such a conservative big city. This combined with pressures for a formidable family name, reasonable income and no parents present to curb her bad habits, cocaine or other stimulants would be my first guess."

"I thought you never did guesses."

"Not guesses per se. Not what you people usually mean by the word. More statistical probabilities. Intuitive leaps."

"Us people?"

John crumpled his napkin into a ball. "He mean normal human beings with average IQs."

Harry looked slightly annoyed. "You think John's a bit thick, then, compared with you?"

Although the rules of social interaction often eluded him, Sherlock had learned enough to know he ought to tread carefully. Harry was the black sheep, John the academical performer. It was obvious that Harry was proud of him, perhaps even felt that his successes somehow mitigated her shortcomings in terms of their parents' expectations. Sherlock thought it strange that such expectations seemed to matter to many even after said parents had passed away.

"No. Our talents merely lie in very different areas."

John beamed. "I think that's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me."

"Apart from the things I tell you when we're alone?"

John's look told him to move on.

"John's the brilliant one. I never even did my A-levels." There was a strange mixture of regret and pride in her voice. "I've got the street smarts, John's got the career."

"Probably what intrigued this Charlotte in the first place. Rehab is mind-numbingly dull. You'd have provided a welcome distraction, a sense of adventure to someone with such a sheltered upbringing."

"I don't know if that's a compliment to me or an insult to Charlotte. Moving on." Harry did not seem stymied. At least not yet.

"Interesting you should mention John's career. To me it seems to be dwindling away lately, mostly part-time locum work as a GP instead of using the surgical skills he has acquired during his overseas service."

"Hey! I thought we were discussing Harry, not me. And that's a bit thick coming from you, since you've the very reason I'm too busy to actually hold a job."

"You know you don't need to worry about finances. My fees are more than adequate in keeping us fed and clothed. Besides, Mycroft wants to buy us a house."

"It's just - - Mycroft wants to WHAT?!

"He thinks it unbecoming to keep up this flat-sharing pretense now that we have taken a step forward in our relationship."

"I wasn't aware it was a pretense. I don't want a house that comes with a full surveillance system attached with no extra charge through which some MI5 idiot can watch me in the sodding shower. Besides, don't you think it's a bit strange - -" John tried to continue his train of thought but realised that he'd made the mistake of using the word normal in the same sentence as the name Holmes. Why did he even try?

Harry was laughing. Hard. "I only know bits and pieces about this Mycroft guy but you make it sound like he's the head of the CIA or something."

"The head of the CIA probably scrubs his toilets," John muttered.

Sherlock didn't even laugh. His focus was on Harry again. "You're between jobs, although you have been thinking about enrolling on some sort of open university course. I have to admit that's hardly a deduction; I saw your leaflets in the hall. You're reasonably happy but never stop looking for a better catch. You would love a pet but are still too uncertain whether your sobriety will hold to dare get one, fearing you might neglect it. You're right-handed but for some reason hold the tennis racket in your left. You're fascinated by John's love life since it's quite understandable in many biological ways for you to be unable to view him as an eligible relationship prospect. You are open about your sexuality and cannot understand why other would shun such honesty. For instance, you have been wondering which one of us usually has the upper hand, so to speak, between the sheets. Do stop kicking me under the table, John."


	3. Chapter 3

After dinner Harry had coaxed them into having tea and cakes in the library. John and Harry sat almost buried in the huge Chesterfield armchairs by the fireplace. Sherlock had said he preferred to stand and was sipping his tea, holding the cup gingerly in his fingers while leaning onto John's chair.

"Your turn, then. Tell me something I don't know about you two," Harry suggested, mostly to John.

"Sherlock's in recovery like you." John hoped Sherlock could not care less if Harry knew. He was probably right, since Sherlock's wistful but mellow expression did not change.

Harry was taken aback. "For real? What's your preferred toxin, then?"

"Cocaine. Opiates, on occasion. Nicotine," John replied and pulled up Sherlock's sleeve to reveal a pair of patches. Sherlock did not move a muscle.

"Good on you," Harry commented, sounding genuinely pleased. How'd you figure this whole thing out, then? Your blog post was kind of lacking in juicy details."

"Figure what out?" Inquired Sherlock, carefully placing his cup on a side table.

"That you fancied by brother?"

"Such a trite word, that. It's hard to pinpoint a particular incident."

John realised Sherlock sounded slightly evasive. Which was not like Sherlock at all.

"John?" Harry turned to her brother for further information.

John bit his lip. "Irene. When I realised I was hoping, really wishing that she was gone for good."

"That was quite similar to how I felt as a spectator to your never-ending parade of airhead girlfriends," Sherlock admitted.

Harry snorted. "John doesn't do girlfriends, he's got conquests."

"What took you so long, then?" Harry asked quietly.

"What do you think?" John retorted. "I'm not you. You knew right from the start life wasn't going to be for you what it was for the other girls. I only get to deal with that now, and rather suddenly, I might add."

"You're an idiot if you think it was ever easy for me." Harry plonked her teacup onto the table between their armchairs. "I was actually glad mom and dad were dead. I don't think I could have made that announcement during some sodding Christmas dinner. You think you know what it feels like to hide something like that for a long time?"

"No wonder you needed to overcompensate so much, then," John said, aware of how hurtful such a statement could prove to be.

It didn't seem to provoke Harry any further. "Look,you just need to decide which is more important, waking next to that - -" She waggles a finger at Sherlock, who raises his brows, looking slightly alarmed, "Or holding onto whatever macho hetero reputation you think you've got going. Newsflash, bro, no one is going to care."

"The Sun begs to differ," John commented dryly.

"No one IMPORTANT, I mean. Do you care what the papers say, then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stretched his neck, wondering if there was a right and wrong answer to this. "As I've repeatedly stated before, people do little else than bide their time talking about useless things because their grasp of proper priorities in the world is so maddeningly thin. What I care about, is whether it affects how I'm being treated at home."

"There are worse things, really, then being outed as the boyfriend of one of arguably the greatest minds in recent British history."

"Arguably?" Sherlock enquired.

John rolled his eyes.

The evening found John Watson sorting through the contents of the fridge and Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, flicking idly through television channels.

"We've got at least six different half-eaten marmalades. You keep insisting I buy more. Don't tell me it's just because you can't be bothered to search the back of the shelves?"

"You keep putting them back there," Sherlock reminded him.

John drops a few outdated jars into the sink, where some black soot-looking material is festering. "No house."

Sherlock leaned onto his elbows, his unruly curl dropping onto his forehead. "What?"

"We're staying here. It's a waste of a good house to let you loose into one."

"I don't see the point either. This is centrally located, Mrs Hudson is convenient and we're not even using all the space we have now. I've been thinking about turning the upstairs bedroom into my study if you don't mind."

"That's still my room, you know."

"You have plenty of room for your laptop and your scant belongings in mine. And the cleaning closet's available for your clothes."

"The cleaning supplies are, surprisingly enough, in the closet, too. I can't believe I'm even discussing things but what would you do with my wardrobe, then?"

"You're always complaining about the things I leave in the living room. Like the violin."

"As though you would run upstairs every time you wanted to play. I'd end up fetching it for you everytime."

Sherlock looked at him, not understanding what was wrong with the statement.

John slumped down onto a chair. Sherlock's attention returned to the television.

Sometimes John still wondered what strange aberration he himself was, willing to put up with the antics of this man. At the same time he was acutely aware that he could not help it any less than a shoreline could help being destroyed by a tsunami.

There was the life he'd had before Sherlock Holmes. And the life after meeting him. And there was really no comparison.

Harry was right. Whatever hardship, embarrassment or pain his involvement with this infuriating, brilliant man would bring him, he would not care. Not really. He had not even minded committing murder for Sherlock just days after meeting him. A couple of stupid phrases in the papers or Donovan's imbesillic humour were nothing compared to that.

John sneaked behind the sofa and took in the sight of Sherlock, brows furrowed in annoyance at the idiocy of Friday night television entertainment.

Sherlock glanced up at him. "You're hovering."

"Maybe. I like watching you."

"I like you watching me. Does that even make sense?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

John sat down next to him.

He'd be a sodding consort. He'd be a boyfriend. He'd be anything he needed to be. As long as there was always going to be a Sherlock to come home to.

The End -

You are the hole in my head

You are the space in my bed

You are the silence in between

What I thought and what I said

You are the night time fear

You are the morning when it's clear

- Florence + The Machine: "No Light, No Light"


End file.
